


Already Got Me Coming Undone

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 05:39:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7087447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Please,” he sniffs, working to sound dismissive despite the fact that he’s playing with her hair, “you’re the one who dragged me into a closet to make out. What are we, hormonal sixteen year olds?”</p><p>She sighs, props her chin up against his shoulder. “Despite what you believe, you’re actually only twenty three. Groping each other in dark closets is <i>well</i> within the age range.”</p><p>Or: Six months after they’ve saved the world, and the five times Bellamy and Clarke are nearly caught in their secret relationship (+ the one time they are.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Already Got Me Coming Undone

**Author's Note:**

> A long, long time back, an anon requested secret making out by the rover, and I promptly filed it away and proceeded to never write it until, well, now. Sorry for the wait, anon. But anyway, I spiralled and it's now a 7k thing, so I hope you like it.

 

In the end, this is how it happens: with as little fanfare as possible, in the midst of their discussion on the next foraging expedition.

Bellamy has taken to flitting around the edges of her tent during nights like these, securing and re-securing the poles, patching up the holes with whatever scraps of fabric he can find despite her insistence that the tent situation is only temporary. Their move back to Arkadia was imminent once everything has been restored anyway, but his only response to her constant reminders is a tart, “it doesn’t mean you have to live like a _heathen,_ Clarke.”

And there’s really no point in arguing with him when he gets like this anyway, so Clarke doesn’t even try all that much. (Besides, she’s always appreciated watching him work. He gets a crease right between his brows whenever he’s concentrating too hard, and it makes him look stupidly boyish.)

It’s the aforementioned crease that distracts her, really, until he tells her, “I’m taking Harper and Bryan with me for our next trip out.”

“Harper?” She jerks out of her stupor, (namely, her weirdly specific fantasies about reaching over to nip at that crease, watch it smooth out under her touch) “Why can’t you take Miller instead?”

He frowns, mindful of the sewing needles held between his teeth (for  _ safekeeping _ , that nerd) before he goes, in mumbled fashion, “Miller needs to stay behind. Who else is going to look out for you when Roan sends his emissary over?”

“I don’t know, maybe the rest of the guard that you’ve hand picked and trained?” She points out, dry, worry tempering into irritation when he shoots her an eye-roll, “Harper isn’t exactly the best shot and you  _ need  _ people who can look out for you while you’re out.”

“I look out for myself just fine,” he says, gruff, turning his attention back to the tent.

“You say, as you come back with yet another life-threatening wound.” She snaps, hating how her voice shakes at the thought of it, grasping onto the hard ridges of her knee to ground herself, “just-- why can’t you just listen to me on this?”

His gaze is fixed on the needle, threading it through the fabric carefully, “because it’s a bad plan, mostly. I’m also not in need of mothering, so.”

Now, fury isn’t an emotion that Clarke’s familiar with- she’s accustomed to barely restrained annoyance, or the type of anger that weighs hard and cold against her chest- but not  _ this,  _ not the kind of anger that rips at her throat and scorches her lungs; and she’s talking even before she realises she’s doing it.

“Do you actually think I  _ like  _ worrying about you?” She explodes, startling him enough that he looks over at her, brow knitted. “That I  _ like _ not being able to breathe easy until I see you walk through those gates, unharmed? I’m not-- I may not be your fucking keeper, or your girlfriend, or even Octavia, but I’m allowed to  _ worry _ , okay? I’m allowed to  _ care  _ about you, for fuck’s sake.”

A beat passes, then two. Bellamy plucks the needle from his mouth, sets it down carefully into the grass.

“Would you want to be?”

She blinks, momentarily confused by the abrupt shift, how he goes from stubborn to shy all at once. “Would I want to be  _ what _ ?”

There’s a hint of pink on his cheeks when he finally looks at her, peering at her from between his dark fan of lashes, “I think you know what I’m asking, Clarke.”

_ Not exactly,  _ she almost says, her mind scrambling to work through the intent behind his words, and--  _ oh _ .

“Oh,” she says aloud, tightening her grip on her knee. In all honesty, it’s not like she’s  _ never  _ thought about it- her brain has supplied her with countless fantasies of being with him, of kisses and the familiar heat of his arms around her- but she’s never actually considered it to be an actual possibility _.  _ Being with him, being at peace _ ,  _ always seemed like something far-off and abstract. Untouchable.

He licks his lips, swallows audibly. “If you want, we can pretend this conversation never happened.”

“That’s not what I want,” she admits, soft, drawing courage from the heat in his gaze, how his fingers won’t stop fidgeting. “What I want is you.”

The grin that spreads across his face at that is nothing short of breathtaking, and she can’t help but smile back, bright and  _ stupid-- _

“Okay,” Bellamy tells her, ducking his head and biting at his lip, before directing his focus back on patching up her tent.

His hands are steady now, sure, as they are when he cradles her face after and kisses her, long and deep and thorough, and this is how it all starts.

 

**I.**

Clarke is not a heavy sleeper, by any measure. 

She used to jump awake at the slightest noise back on the ark, her breathing especially loud in the darkness and sheets sticky against her skin. It was hard to go back to sleep after, and she would count the beats between the hum of the machines until she was drowsy with it, drifting into dreamless sleep shortly after.

It’s worse down here, of course. When she sleeps, it’s with one eye open and a knife under her pillow, staying absolutely still so she can make out her mother’s even breaths in the middle of the night.

Then this whole thing with Bellamy starts, and everything changes.

“Hey,” he says sleepily when she rouses, the bed creaking under his weight as he slides under the covers too. “Sorry I took so long, but your mom took forever to leave today.”

She hums in response, fitting her face into the crook of his neck and hissing at the temperature of his skin, “jesus, were you waiting out in the cold this entire time?”

He pinches her side teasingly, rubs his thumb over the spot almost immediately after, “well, it’s not like I can walk through the front door.”

“Sorry.” Clarke murmurs, burrowing closer. The unspoken agreement to keep their relationship quiet- while troublesome, made it easier for her to breathe at night. She didn’t think she could deal with the stares, the way people would whisper about how she killed everyone she touched. It was something she already told herself every night. It didn’t need to be rehashed in the day, too.

Pushing the panic away, she forces a smile instead, “though I’m starting to think you just like being dramatic and scaling through windows.”

“Oh, sure.” He laughs, dropping a kiss against her hair. “It has completely nothing to do with your mom, who I’m sure will like me significantly less if she finds out I’ve been sneaking into your bed all this time. We have an hour, Clarke. Just sleep.”

Darting her hands under his shirt, she scratches lightly at his stomach, rests her palms over his ribs. He’s lost some weight after the whole ordeal with Pike and Alie, but was slowly gaining back the muscle in the weeks that have passed, thankfully. “Maybe I’m just not sleepy today.”

They’ve done nothing but cuddle the last few times- there was something about Bellamy’s big, lumbering presence that made her feel safe, and sleep always came easy when she could feel his breath against the back of her neck- but the last few days had been particularly busy with winter upon them, and she  _ missed  _ him.

The smirk that graces his features is lazy and contented all at once, smug in a way that makes her want to clamber into his lap and kiss it right off his face, “what are we supposed to do with all this time then? Learn how to balance our checkbooks?”

“You’re such an asshole,” she huffs, impatiently tugging at the hem of his shirt until he relents, pulling it over his head, laughing. “I’m practically sitting on you and you’re talking about  _ accounting _ .” 

His response is partly muffled by the fabric of her shirt when he presses a kiss against her sternum, lingering, “clearly I have my priorities straight.”

“Nerd,” she retorts, her breath hitching when his hands delve under her shirt, fingers working at her bra and slipping them off her shoulders, pushing down her shirt far enough so he could bite at the exposed skin.

She mewls at the contact, clutching desperately at his shoulders while he laughs hotly against her neck, murmurs, “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I hate you.” Clarke mutters, running her hands down his chest and to the belt buckle of his pants, undoing it impatiently and yanking them down along with his boxers, helps him along when he tries to kick them off and onto the ground.

When their lips meet this time, it’s sloppy, all teeth and tongue, nothing like the careful kisses he used to give her when they first started doing this, like he was afraid of her disappearing if he pushed too hard. She likes it better like this, she thinks.

Bellamy gets her shirt off and his lips are along the waistband of her underwear when she hears the clatter of boots down the hallway, the cadence of a familiar voice, and--

He pauses, hands curling over her hips, “is that…?”

Swearing, she shoves him off, pushing the rest of his clothes into the narrow space under the bed, “get in there!”

The look on his face would have been pretty comical, if she wasn’t so distressed by the entire situation. His knees crack against the ground when he scrambles under, and she yanks the sheet up to her neck--

Just as the door swings open, Abby stepping in fluidly.

“Sorry,” she winces, clearly apologetic, “did I wake you?”

“Nope,” Clarke squeaks, pushing further down under her covers. From this angle, she can make out Bellamy’s feet poking out from under the bed frame. The sight of it threatens to undo her, her hysterical laugh barely masked with a poorly disguised cough.

Abby snaps her gaze over to her at that, alert. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” She manages, working to keep her tone nonchalant despite the thundering of her pulse, “I’m just exhausted.”

“Are you sure?” Her mother’s hands are cool against her skin when she lays it over her forehead, drawing closer, “is it a fever?”

She smiles wanly, takes a surreptitious peek down below as Abby busies herself with smoothing the sweaty strands off her face, “no, really. I just want to go back to sleep.”

“Well,” she hesitates, and the pause she takes is long enough for Clarke to start feeling antsy, “at least promise me that you’ll look for me if you start to feel sick.”

“You’ll be the first one.” She mumbles, faking a yawn before letting her eyelids flutter shut,  _ deliberate _ .

Abby drops a quick kiss against her forehead, leaves one last murmured assurance against her damp skin before she’s heading out again, the door slamming shut and jerking Clarke up and off the bed, already reaching for him--

He groans when she tugs on his arm, collapsing solidly on the mattress and sprawling his body over hers, their legs tangled and fingers interlaced.

“The floor was  _ cold _ ,” Bellamy whines, butting his forehead against her shoulder, “stop laughing, Clarke. I can’t feel my fucking dick anymore.”

“You’re such a baby,” she says, fond, kissing at the spots along his jaw where she can reach before pushing him onto his back, “I’ll warm you up, okay?”

He makes a grumbled noise of assent, grouchy and inconsolable until she wriggles further under the sheets, biting at his hip before descending and there’s  _ really _ not much talking after that.

 

**II.**

They’ve always been tactile people- at least around each other, they are- so no one says anything even if they spot Bellamy’s hand resting against the small of her back as they walk; her palm squeezing at his knee during particularly stupid council meetings. 

It’s their  _ thing,  _ as Raven would not-so-delicately put it, and if all the casual touches led to urgent, strained sex up against the wall after, well. That was nobody’s business but their own.

She finds him barking orders to the latest batch of guard recruits by the south edge of the wall, sweaty and dishevelled in a way that makes her thighs clench together. Steeling herself, (you’re in fucking  _ public,  _ Griffin) she charges forward, rests her fingers against the jut of his shoulder.

Bellamy doesn’t even turn to look at her, just presses a kiss against her knuckles. “Took you long enough.”

“Monty only told me that you were looking for me midway through my shift,” she scowls, flicks at his nose in retaliation. To his credit, he doesn’t even blink, just bites down lightly at her finger until she pulls away, yelping.

“Ugh, cooties,” she grumbles, working to keep the laugh from her voice as she wipes her fingers against the side of his pants.

He leers over at her, sides of his mouth twitching like he’s holding back on a smile. “Please, you  _ want _ my cooties.”

Sticking her tongue out at him, she manages a garbled, “gross.” It’s the best she can do under the circumstances, considering he’s wearing a thin t-shirt that’s sticking to his skin, hair rumpled and smile wide. It’s rare that Bellamy lets himself be like this; carefree and teasing and _ happy _ . It happens with increasing frequency now, something which she appreciates, but Clarke still finds herself trying to commit this sight to memory anyway, something good to keep for the days when it gets hard to breathe.

“You’re done with your shift, right?”

“Yeah,” she says, automatic, refocusing her attention back on his voice. “Why, what did you have in mind?”

“Oh, nothing much.” He replies, innocent, only remembering to wave the rest of the recruits off when Miller hollers something at his retreating back, “meet me at the west gate in five minutes?” 

Arching a brow at him, she goes, “you do know that I hate surprises, right?”

His only response is a grin along with a cryptic, “you’ll like this one,” before he darts off, probably to return his rifle to the armoury in favor of his handgun. He always looked a little unnerved whenever he didn’t have one at his disposal, just like how she felt uneasy if she didn’t at least have one knife tucked into her boot.

(And she couldn’t help but think- maybe one day their first instinct wouldn’t be to fight. Maybe one day they could stop holding their breaths for the next war. It wasn’t today, and it wouldn’t be tomorrow, but with Bellamy by her side, she knew that they could get there one day.)

The gate is already propped open by the time she gets there, and she spots him pacing even before she crests the hill to the top, his jacket thrown over his shoulders and hair wet from what must have been an hasty shower. Biting at her lip to taper at her smile, she pokes at his shoulder blade, starts walking through the gate even before he catches on.

“You don’t even know where we’re going,” he protests, falling into step next to her.

“I was guessing just far out enough so no one hears us,” she comments, wry, startling when his hand slides over to her hip, guiding her in another direction.

He snorts at that, “I didn’t bring you all the way to the woods to  _ seduce  _ you.”

“How disappointing,” she teases, laces their fingers together when he tries to draw away. “I thought you were going to debauch me against some trees.”

That gets a laugh out of him, fingers tightening over hers and squeezing,“pretty sure we already did that the last time.”

“Twice,” Clarke adds, wholly smug, her voice dipping into a shriek when he grabs her by her waist, hauling her over his shoulder as they trudge further into the woods, only setting her down by the stream that they had used to go to back by the dropship.

“Caveman,” she shoots, swatting at his ass when he grins at her, clearly still breathless from the whole endeavour.

“You were taking too long,” he says, mild, retrieving something from his pack and unfolding it with military precision. “Give me a second, I need to set up.”

It’s a  _ blanket,  _ she realises, or maybe a mat or sorts, the kind that she used to see in picture books back on the ark. There’s tupperwares of food too, not the venison or rabbit that was churned out in bulk by the kitchens, but delicate pastries and loaves of bread that she recognized as Fox’s work--

“Is this,” she falters, scrambling for the right word, “is this a  _ picnic? _ ”

He colors at that, keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the loose thread by the edge of the mat, “I mean, kind of. I just-- I realized I never took you on any dates, okay? And they always talked about picnics in the books I read, it was--”

She flops down onto the mat, beaming. He was still rambling, nervous, his hands in constant motion, and she leans forward to give him a smacking kiss on the cheek, interjecting, “I love it.”

His smile is a little shy,  _ awkward.  _ “Good.” He says, quiet, looking at her steadily. The look in his eyes was immeasurably soft, the kind that he sought to hide from her before all this had started. It was a good thing, she reminisces, because Clarke wouldn’t have known what to do about it back then. It’s different now, easy, when she ducks forward to kiss him, gentle.

He chases after her mouth when she leans back onto her elbows, catches the side of her nose instead, making her giggle. “You’re just,” he huffs, tugging her up so he can kiss her properly, “the food’s going to get cold if you don’t stop distracting me.”

“I’m not the one with no self-restraint.” She argues, biting at his chin.

They would have went on exactly like this if it wasn’t for the crash in the underbrush close by, preceded by a loud curse--

Bellamy tenses immediately, hand going to his gun instinctively while she pulls him to his feet, pushing the remains of the picnic and his pack under a bush before they dive behind a grove of trees, breath abated.

She sags in relief at the sight of the familiar Ark jacket, the tuft of messy brown hair.

“It’s just Jasper,” she hisses, tugging on the front of his jacket. Dimly, she registers his muscles relaxing under her touch, his hand settling on her spine and drumming out a senseless beat instead.

“What’s he  _ doing  _ here?”

“Not staying long, hopefully.” She mumbles, emitting a silent groan when he unveils a makeshift fishing rod, one of Raven’s inventions that no one had gotten the hang of yet. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

The chuckle he lets out is weary, but inexplicably fond, too as he reaches up to rub a stray strand of hair between his fingers.

“Rain check?” He offers.

Going up on her toes, she seals her mouth over his, chaste and sweet, “it’s a date.”

 

**III.**

She squeals when a jet of ice cold water sputters out from the shower hose, drenching her shoulders and hair instantly.

Glaring, she pushes the limp strands off her face, “you take cold showers in  _ winter _ ?”

“Builds endurance.” He says mock-gravely, side-stepping her to twist at the knob carefully, “though something tells me that you’d rather skip a shower than brave a cold one.”

Batting his hand away, she reaches aside and tweaks at his nipple lightly, making him jerk with it. “I will when it’s the dead of winter.” She says pointedly, smirking, the grimace he shoots her way only fuelling her as she grazes her fingers down to tickle his ribs instead.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he grumbles in between fits of laughter, trailing off into a full blown chortle when she goes for his navel. She barely gets any time to react before he scoops her up by her waist, hauling her under the hose as a stream of warm water hits her back.

Gasping, she shakes out the water caught in her ears, runs a palm over her face, “ _ Bellamy! _ ”

He grins down at her, running his fingers through her hair, “well, you  _ started  _ it.”

“And in other news, you’re still a jerk.” Clarke sighs, pushing at his chest until he lets up, “make yourself useful and wash my back, will you?”

Humming softly, he starts working on the knots in her hair instead, careful. “You want me to work on your hair too?”

It’s an innocuous question, casual more than anything, but she finds herself bristling anyway. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Nothing,” Bellamy shrugs, sliding his hands down to her shoulders and pressing down against the tense muscle, “it’s getting a little long, though. I can just detangle it or give it a trim if you want.”

There’s no pity in his tone, no condescension either. It’s what she likes best about him, that he didn’t treat her like glass, that he didn’t  _ coddle  _ or tiptoe around her like she was minutes away from shattering. The first few days back had been terrible, in that sense- everyone else had been handling her with kid gloves, all bright suggestions and soft voices, their constant refrain being  _ but only if you want to, Clarke!  _ And, god, she knew that they had meant well, but their kindness had chafed at her, rang false in her ears.

(On their first day back, no one had let her do  _ anything,  _ and he found her skulking around the perimeter of the camp, brooding, and his only response had been to stare before he dropped a bag of onions at her feet, brows raised. At her confusion, he added, “well shit, Clarke. If you really have nothing to do, you could at least help me peel them.”)

She drops her forehead against his shoulder, banding her arms around her torso. “A trim would be nice.”

Nodding, he disentangles himself from her, hands her a bar of soap so she can scrub at his back and shoulders. “You have nothing to worry about. I’ve been giving out haircuts to everyone who asked.”

That piques her interest enough for her to perk up, “wait, seriously?”

“Fine, it’s just been the guys.” Bellamy admits, turning over to run the bar over her torso instead, squeezing her sides before travelling back up again, lingering as he soaps up the space between her breasts, “but the theory is the same either way, so you’re in good hands.”

“Huh,” Clarke says, absentminded, rubbing the foam through his thick hair, “well, I can cut yours too, if you let me.”

“It’s short enough as it is,” he whines, petulant, blowing a raspberry against her neck when she rolls her eyes, “fine, be that way.”

“You’re so  _ vain _ , Bellamy Blake.” She laughs, directing the hose over his head.

The loud spray of the shower makes it impossible to conduct conversation after, so they focus on cleaning each other up instead, helping with the impossible to reach places, cleaning out each other’s fingernails.

She would have missed the pounding of a fist against the bathroom door if it wasn’t accompanied with a frustrated yell, Bellamy fumbling for the shower knob--

The voice, undoubtedly Octavia’s, comes filtering through the door, “listen, you’ve been in there for the past twenty minutes, and  _ some  _ of us need to shower before heading out, so get out in the next five minutes or I’m  _ making _ you!”

“It’s only been ten minutes!” He shouts back, pounding his fist against the shower stall when the doorknob jiggles ominously, “oh I’m sorry, do you really want to see my bare ass here?”

With everything that has happened, Clarke forgets, sometimes, that they’re still siblings, that they could both be petty towards one another,  _ immature.  _ It’s a lot better than how it was months back, all frosty silences and set jaws, barely meeting each other’s eye even if they were the only two people in the room. Bellamy never talked about it, but he never had to. She traced the scars Octavia left behind at night, the puckered one by the edge of his ribs, the small one by his nose, and the cold, vast feeling inside her clenched into a fist.

It was hard to reconcile the girl who had once adored her brother, who had once saw him as the centre of her universe to be capable of something like this. Bellamy had forgiven her, but it was hard not to notice how he flinched away when she raised her voice, the watchful way he regarded her hands when she wield her sword. Seeing them like this made her ache, and on bad days it was impossible to even  _ look _ at Octavia without feeling a dull edge of resentment, something bitter and foul-tasting pushing against the back of her teeth.

Maybe one day, Octavia would learn something about forgiveness. Maybe one day, they could bring themselves to talk about it. Today just wasn’t that day. Not yet.

Bellamy turns his wide gaze over to her, cranking up the shower to muffle the sound of their voices. “Shit, what do we do?”

_ We could just tell her,  _ she almost says, but the phantom sensation of the bloodied knife in her hand, the viscous coat of black blood over her fingers stops her short. She trembles with it, shakes--

He tips her chin up gently, the movement pulling her out of her thoughts. “I’m right here,” he tells her, firm, self-assured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The screaming in her ears quietens at that, lessens to a dull, tolerable roar. She deflates, rests her weight against him while rubbing at the line of his throat, offers, “I’m not going anywhere either.”

They tell themselves this on bad nights, on the nights where he sees Gina in every face he passes and she wakes up screaming Lexa’s name. It’s not much, but when she’s pressed up against his chest, listening to the solid thump of his pulse, she believes it.

“We’ll tell everyone soon,” Clarke says finally, pulling away. “But not now, okay?”

The crooked smile he shoots her is comforting, familiar. “I’ll distract her, you sneak out?”

“Foolproof,” she laughs, “as our plans always are.”

(They may not have a hundred percent success rate, she thinks, darting smoothly into Bellamy’s room the minute Octavia turns her back on her, catching a glimpse of his smile when he catches her eye; but at least they’re always in it together.)

 

**IV.**

Winter brings about a storm that wrecks nearly the entirety of the northern wall, and with Bellamy being in charge of coordinating the manpower and repairs, she barely sees him for the next week or so. 

Clarke deals with it well, mostly. On the third day, she sneaks into his room to pinch one of his shirts, but  _ only  _ because her sheets didn’t smell like him anymore and she didn’t sleep as restfully without him snoring against her neck. At least with his shirt, she could sort of trick her mind into thinking that he was still there.

It’s worse on the fifth day, with him constantly being in her periphery but never really close enough to touch. She had even been looking forward to council meetings all day, because at least that mean she could rest her thigh against his and leech his warmth; breathe in his comforting scent of pine and gunpowder, but there had been an incident at the guards quarters and he had stayed behind to resolve it.

So, really, she can’t be held responsible for her actions by the time the seventh day rolls around.

He’s striding down the corridor when she ambushes him, curling her fingers into the front of his shirt and yanking him into the cramped, overflowing janitor’s closet.

A small, startled noise leaves his throat when she pushes him up against the wall, drops off into a moan when she sucks on his bottom lip all while fumbling to push his jacket off his shoulders.

“I missed you too,” he rasps in between breaths, laughing.

Greedily delving her hands under his shirt, she presses her fingers against the divots of his spine, nuzzling his sternum. “Don’t get smug about it.”

Bellamy stifles a laugh against her hair, “it’s hard not to when you’re  _ smelling  _ me. Have I mentioned that I haven’t taken a shower yet?”

“I don’t care,” Clarke mutters, petulant. “You know, you really don’t have much of a leg to stand on when you have your entire face buried in my neck.”

“Please,” he sniffs, working to sound dismissive despite the fact that he’s playing with her hair, “you’re the one who dragged me into a closet to make out. What are we, hormonal sixteen year olds?”

She sighs, props her chin up against his shoulder. “Despite what you believe, you’re actually only twenty three. Groping each other in dark closets is  _ well _ within the age range.”

“You’re a terrible influence.” He tells her, but she can hear the smile in his voice anyway.

The heat from before has settled into something else entirely, warm and soft and companionable, going through the steps of a dance they’ve been through a thousand times before. It reminds her that Bellamy’s her best friend too, that beyond anything, they could simply hold each other in the dark, and nothing else in the world could ever make her feel quite as content.

His chest shudders when he takes a deep breath, murmurs, “I love you.”

“I love you too.” She manages, filled with a stupid, irrational urge to cry at that, at how he could unmake everything that had been complicated and messy with their world and pin it down to a single, irrefutable fact.

“I have to be at a debrief in five,” he says, reluctant, stroking her cheekbone with the edge of his thumb. “But I’ll find you after dinner? By the fire pit?”

_ Night shift,  _ she tries to say, but the words are barely out of her mouth when light floods the room, making them squint.

Murphy blinks, his hand still poised over the light switch.

They spring apart, Bellamy fumbling for his discarded jacket while she backs up, regarding him warily. Technically, it’s not like they were doing  _ anything,  _ so it’s not like Murphy would have much to tell, but she can’t help but feel suspicious all the same.

Clarke arches a brow at him, crosses her arms and waits. He only stares back blankly, as if catching them entangled in each other in the dark was a common occurrence. (It kind of-- it probably is, to be fair.  _ Shut up _ .)

“You said you were going to debrief us ten minutes ago.” Murphy says, breaking the silence, leaning against the door frame heavily.

Bellamy scowls over at him, shrugging on his jacket. “I’m coming, aren’t I?”

“Just making sure you get there,” Murphy points out, stepping aside to let him pass, his mouth twitching at the corners as if he was holding back on a smirk.

She straightens out her shirt surreptitiously, makes sure to look Murphy in the eye when she says, flippant, “I guess I’ll see you both later.”

“Of course you will.” Murphy grins, patting Bellamy’s bicep, “don’t worry, princess. I’ll return him to you, safe and sound.”

“You better!” She calls out to his receding back, to the sound of his smug, knowing laugh. It, surprisingly, doesn’t bother her as much as she thought it would.

 

**V.**

Clarke knows, in a abstract, big-picture kind of way, that her mother is dating Marcus Kane.

It’s not-- she doesn’t mind, per se, but it’s not like she wants to witness them making googly eyes at one another either. Her method of coping mostly involves blatantly not acknowledging anything about the entire endeavour, and Abby seemed mostly happy to comply. It’s a pretty good system, if she says so herself.

But then Kane starts talking about going back to Polis to make nice with the new commander, and of  _ course _ he wants Abby around for when that happens.

“I’ll be  _ fine,” _ she declares for the eighth time, trying (valiantly) to rein in her exasperation. “Seriously, mom. I think Jackson and I can handle the med bay for the next three days, at least.”

“I’m not worried about the med bay,” her mother says, in varying degrees of scorn. Then, haltingly, “are you sure you’re going to be okay being alone in the cabin by yourself?”

She blinks, drops the scalpel she was polishing back onto the tray. “I’ll be fine, yeah. Maybe I can crash over at a friend’s for those few days.”

Abby’s lips thin at that, “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you sleeping over at Bellamy’s.”

“What makes you think that it’s  _ Bellamy _ ?” She demands, planting her hands on her hips in what she hopes is an approximation of righteous indignation.

“When is it ever not,” she replies, dry, trailing off into a sigh at Clarke’s raised brow. “Listen, I can’t stop you from doing whatever it is you want to do, but I trust you to make good decisions, okay?”

There’s a part of her that’s almost tempted to tease this out further, maybe make her squirm a little longer, but the worry lining her mother’s face is enough for her to relent. “I was thinking of Raven when I said that anyway.”

“Okay,” Abby says, decidedly relieved, (anyone who wasn’t Bellamy would have probably sufficed) and that’s the end of the conversation at hand.

And it’s not like she doesn’t  _ try,  _ but. Raven’s a fitful sleeper, muttering non-stop in her sleep, her elbows bony and sharp when they lodge themselves in her ribs. And she won’t stop fidgeting _ ,  _ going from one position to the next in a span of five seconds, and it drives Clarke  _ crazy _ having to shift constantly in the middle of the night to accommodate her.

“I thought you were trying to prove a point to your mom,” Bellamy says, unbearably cocky when she crawls into his bed later that night.  

Grunting, she slides the sheets over her shoulders, interlacing their fingers and pushing up against his back so he can spoon her properly, “shut up.”

“Rude,” he sighs against her neck, relaxing into her touch. His laugh is soft, private, the kind that not a lot of people get to witness, “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re insufferable?” She mumbles sleepily, before making the split second decision to turn around, dislodging his arm entirely.

He whines unhappily at that, spitting out a mouthful of her hair, “I’m the insufferable one? Look at you.”

“It’s just some  _ hair. _ God, you’re such a baby.”

“Says the one who can’t sleep without a blanket. Even when it’s summer and you’re sweating to death.”

Clarke kicks at his ankle, “you’re the one who likes to sleep with three different pillows.”

“It’s for my bad back.” He retorts, instantaneous, pinching at her forearm lightly. “At least I don’t snore in my sleep. Unlike some people.”

“Me?” She huffs, sitting up, pushing at his shoulder when he tries to rise up on his elbows. “The bed  _ shakes  _ with your stupid snores--”

He bursts into laughter when she tries to pin him down with her hips, scowling, and he flips her over way too easily, fingers locked over her wrists. “What are you-- are you trying to  _ fight  _ me or something?”

“I could kick your ass if I really put my mind to it.” She declares breathlessly, hooking her leg over his hip.

“Okay,” he laughs, releasing her slowly. “Don’t say I didn’t give you a fair shot.”

She’s spared from having to answer, thankfully, by a sharp rap on the door.

He stills, brows rising to his hairline.  _ Should I answer it?  _ He mouths, just as the knocks dissolve into outright pounding. She shrugs, wiggling out from under him so he can yank on a pair of sweatpants before heading out, muttering under his breath.

The voice at the door is familiar but not immediately recognizable to her ears, not until said voice launches into a dramatic rendition of Hamlet’s monologue. Groaning, Clarke releases a breath she didn’t know she was even holding, dropping back onto the cocoon of covers.  _ Miller. _

Most likely a heavily inebriated Miller, she realises, judging from the way Bellamy is swearing at the top of his lungs, the bedroom door shuddering slightly before she hears him grunt, eking out a choked, “jesus _ , _ dude, how much did you drink?”

“Enough!” Miller pipes up, dissolving into cackles at Bellamy’s growl of frustration. “Blake, hey.  _ Blake _ . Pay attention to me.”

“Not much else I can do here.” He snaps, and she can’t help but snort at that, pressing a palm over her mouth to muffle the sound.

Another thump against the door, someone grappling against the handle. “Why can’t I sleep it off  _ here _ ?” A hiccup, followed by a weary sigh. “Do you-- you want me to wake Bryan? He’ll get all grumpy, and--”

Bellamy’s muttered reply is barely discernible especially through the door, but she hears Miller loud and clear. “Do you have someone in there?” Then, a dramatic gasp, “you  _ do _ . Holy shit, dude. Fucking finally. Is it Clarke? Did you finally grow a pair?”

“That’s it, get up you asshole.” He hisses, and she can’t stop picturing his face, grouchy and annoyed and probably a little embarrassed, too, and she’s not sure what it says about her character that she’s endeared by the thought of it alone.

“He wants to have your babies!” Miller declares, cheerful, pounding on the door once more, and it’s followed by another muffled swear on Bellamy’s part before it falls quiet again.

Grinning, she pulls the sheet around her shoulders, nuzzling her face into Bellamy’s pillow. It’s shaping up to be a pretty good night, after all.  
  


 

**VI**

Logically, she knew that staying within the compound didn’t ensure one’s safety- Alie had tore their defences down to shreds in a matter of days, after all- but it didn’t stop her from worrying whenever Bellamy left anyway. 

Rational decision making meant that she shouldn’t go along with him. They couldn’t leave Arkadia unguarded, and with her mother and Kane being out of commission, she was their best shot. Rational decision making entailed that she stay behind.

Rational decision making, she couldn’t help but think, could also be a real pain in the ass.

Clarke was feeling pretty low on rationality- and practicality, at the moment. But, still. She swallowed her doubts and volunteered to walk Bellamy to the Rover, at least.

He smiles crookedly, spinning on his heel to look at her. “Well, I think I can swing by the souvenir store this time. What do you want? Face paint? A commemorative pin from mount weather?” His grin widens at her eye-roll, and he continues, “maybe I can get you a t-shirt from Polis. No promises, though.”

“Sure,” she goes, weaving their fingers together. “I was thinking more along the lines of a fridge magnet though, but I’m open to ideas.”

(And she can’t help but wonder, a little, about when it started to get  _ easy _ to talk about everything they’ve been through. It feels like a step in the right direction.)

The garage is noticeably empty as they make a beeline over to the Rover, windows already rolled down and back doors propped open in preparation. Leaning back against the door, he reaches over to toy with the fabric of her threadbare shirt, absentminded. “I think a new shirt would be a more practical idea though.”

“Yeah?” She asks, working to keep the tremor from her voice. It was  _ stupid,  _ and illogical, too, to be so worried, but they hadn’t been properly separated for  _ months,  _ and--

He taps at the arc of her cheekbone, wry, “don’t miss me too much when I’m gone.”

“This is a good thing,” she muses, her laugh shaky, “I was getting sick of your face anyway.”

His mouth quirks at that, “they do say that familiarity breeds contempt.”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” She shoots back, taking a step closer.

“Here I thought you didn’t even like me.” He laughs, pressing a kiss against the space between her brows, resting his hand on her back when she shudders in response, “I’ll see you in a day or two, Clarke.”

And before she can overthink it, she fists her fingers into his shirt, pushing him back so she can kiss him, hard, his back thumping solidly against the car door. The angle’s awkward and she feels off-balance from having to tiptoe, but Bellamy regains his senses soon enough, leans into it and kisses her back.

“I’ll be livid if you don’t check in through the radio,” she tells him, pulling away just so she can drop kisses against every inch of his skin, “every few hours, you asshole.”

“Always bossing me around.” He grumbles good-naturedly, pressing one last firm kiss against her mouth. “You through?”

Smoothing out the creases in his shirt, she takes a step back, letting him fall back against the Rover. “For now, yeah.”

The car groans under his weight and they both startle. Frowning, she latches onto his elbows, pulling him off just as Raven emerges from the underbody of the Rover, scowling, “ _ easy,  _ you assholes. You think it’s easy to repair this scrap heap all the time?”

He gapes, “how long were you down there?”

“Long enough,” Raven sighs, mock-dramatic, pointedly darting her gaze over from their mussed hair to their swollen mouths, “I would say I’m surprised, but I’m really not.”

“Shut up,” she manages weakly, trying to hide her surprise at Bellamy’s non-response, the shy duck of his head into the crook of her neck instead. Biting back a smile, she kisses his cheek, right on the flushed, blotchy spots, making him laugh.

“Gross,” Miller says as he clambers onto the Rover. “Not in front of the  _ children _ .”

“I think it’s cute that they’re still so affectionate with each other after years of marriage,” Monty chirps, squeezing her elbow as he passes, “maybe you’re just jealous.”

“Fucking finally.” Jasper chimes in, followed by the unmistakable sound of a high five exchanged.

“Goddamn teenagers,” Bellamy mutters, pushing his forehead against hers and groaning when the hollering starts; at the sharp, impatient tap of the horn. “I love you. Be back soon.”

Clarke closes her eyes, breathing him in, relishing this moment. There never used to be time for goodbyes and it tastes bittersweet against her tongue. “I’ll be right here, when you get back. Remember, I’m not going anywhere.”

She senses, rather than sees his smile, and in the distance, the doors rumble open, letting in the light.

**Author's Note:**

> If canon makes you emo, clap your hands
> 
> (then go onto my [tumblr](http://prosciuttoe.tumblr.com/) and whine about it.)


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